“Blest if I know, my dear. Some fool quarrel, I suppose. Bernie just lit out — disappeared. He wrote me from the Yukon. Said his engagement was broken and he wasn’t coming back. And not to try to hunt him up because he was never coming back. I didn’t. What was the use? I knew Bernie. I went on piling up money because there wasn’t anything else to do. But I was mighty lonely. All I lived for was them little notes now and then from Bernie — Klondike — England — South Africa — China — everywhere. I thought maybe he’d come back some day to his lonesome old dad. Then six years ago even the letters stopped. I didn’t hear a word of or from him till last Christmas.”

“Did he write?”

“No.